


This Land is Your Land

by Hyenada (orphan_account)



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Biblical Themes, Concerning Mentor/Student Relationships Overall, Gen, Ideological Content of the Concerning Kind, Mentorship, Period Typical Violence | Sexism | Antisemitism, grooming for leadership
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Hyenada
Summary: It is a poor student who does not thereby also teach his mentor.By the instruction of Oberst-Gruppenführer Heydrich, Obergruppenführer John Smith undertakes the task of educating the next generation of the Reich -- framed by biblical antecedents.





	1. A Proud Look

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cirilla9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/gifts).



 

"You will stop your griping this very instant," Oberst-Gruppenführer Heydrich steps over a huddled block of frozen man half-buried beneath the drafts of unseasonable snow, leaving his disgruntled Scharführer to follow in his wide-legged pace. "It is most unbecoming."

"I apologize, Oberst-Gruppenführer," John Smith replies as he steps over the frozen corpse and tracks its presence with wide, surprised eyes. Once clear of the obstruction, he diverts his gaze pointedly to the sloping angle between Heydrich's suited shoulder blades, and escalates his ongoing mental tirade at his directed target.  _There_. John fixates on the slight crease running down the middle of the man's back, where the fabric has been folded.

He applies his wordless accusation with a little more intensity, intent on burning a hot, smoldering hole in between his superior's shoulders with the sheer force of his anger.

Childish, maybe, but warranted. 

It was very, very warranted.

Three months into his new posting and John Smith was idling in the period before a major promotion back into the ranks of the commissioned. He knew it, Rudolph Wegener knew it, and goddammit, the Butcher of Prague knew it, too.

Why  _else_  would the man so carefully dismantle everything John had been working to achieve for the past several months?

John Smith had always been an ambitious man; he had a carnal inner nature that savaged any and every chance of promotion, one that prevented him from ever looking back, always pushing, always advancing. It had made him successful back in the army. Here, it made him not only successful but it made him popular. 

And when Himmler's Evil Genius sponsored his advancement, John knew that things were going his way.

The man turns to look over his shoulder at John, narrows his eyes. The Oberst-Gruppenführer has recently cut his hair down to almost nothing, something about a rapidly receding hairline, and his work in the US -- the American Reich, has resulted in a loss of weight. John, by comparison, has recently put on a good fifteen pounds. By the time they get to the house at the outskirts of the camp, built brick by brick by laborers and criminals, Heydrich is in a dangerous mood. And he's panting. Age is catching up to him, step by step, and the weather conditions make it worse.

"You  _will_  stop this," Heydrich hisses through his teeth as he leads the way through the floors and up, up three flights of stairs to the top floor where the offices and board rooms are located; to the very end of the building, where the man usually resides when overseeing the area. John follows right up until they reach the threshold. 

From there, he stands rigidly just in front of the door, in the room but not  _inside_  it. It's cold; he feels cold, but his skin is burning and his blood boils. 

John knew his ill-disciplined temper was disrespectful, but it wasn't uncalled for. 

"Do you know why I did that?" The Butcher of Prague asks, throwing himself carelessly back into his padded leather deskchair. There's a soft pneumatic hiss as the hydraulics of the thing adjust for his weight. John glances out of the window. Mismatched patches of bright light permeate the cool dark of the very early morning, searing idle flairs of color across the city's lumpy skin beyond -- far beyond. The Cincinnati camp itself is a sprawling cityscape in its own right. 

When John does not immediately reply, Heydrich leans forward and spreads both pale hands on top of his desk, palms flat against the metal. 

"Do you know why I did this, John?"

John can think of a couple of reasons why, but none of them were for polite comply, nor wise to say in front of the Man with the Iron Heart; instead, John set his posture, pressed his lips into a thin line, and did his best not to scowl.

Recently, there had been an escape. It was rare, these days, especially after the first incident, which involved a mere adolescent and the Lagerkommandant of the Junior camp -- but it had happened and John had, he felt, dealt with it accordingly. Instead of hounding down the men immediately he had waited and watched, followed them and rooted out their fellow conspirators. There were more than forty of them, in the end, most of them Jews, a few communists, here and there. 

John had planned on returning each and every one of them back to the Camp. Instead, Heydrich had arrived soon thereafter and killed each and every one of them regardless.

It didn't make sense. They would die regardless or not if they were in the camp or not, that was true, but it was supposed to send a message; deter more escapes, worsen morale, make their lives easier. It was to be a flawless victory, but John came out empty handed.

No, John thought. He didn't know.

His silence only made Heydrich angrier. The man inhaled sharply, adjusted his sitting position. 

"You understand that to do the clever thing is merely allowing your pride to control you. The solution you provided may work, but it is risky it, it is uncalled for. You know very well the proper solution to the problem. Pray, John, have you ever fought in a real war? In war a dull success is always better than a brilliant one. You had better learn to understand why."

He banged the desk furiously. 

"Pride, John, is a dangerous killer. No one else would have indulged you the way I have, but you must remind yourself that you are not the only man with the capacity to make orders in this camp."

John stared ahead and said nothing. 

"Answer me!"

He didn't know what to strictly answer with, so he opted for the same old: "Ja, Oberst-Gruppenführer."

"Do you honestly believe that  _you_  needed to parade those men inside the camp?"

Yes. "Nien, Oberst-Gruppenführer."

"Did you think that it would somehow be better? Rather than doing the smart, logical thing, but instead, allow for your pride to take over everything?"

"Nien, Oberst-Gruppenführer."

"You are dismissed. Take twenty-four hours to consider the matter and then you will report to Obersturmbannführer Wegener."

John saluted, crisp, blank. "Ja, Oberst-Gruppenführer."

"Now, get out."

Alone in his office, Heydrich watched the door close. As it clicked shut, his expression changed from that of barely constrained rage to one of thoughtful curiosity. 

 

 

"You shoot like a fuckin' woman, Klemm. A fuckin' blind ass  _wo-man_." Lieutenant Hauge singsonged through his chosen gibe, arms swinging, long limbs deftly bouncing along the woodland foliage with his usual show of vivacious nature. In response, Major Klemm himself very nearly recoiled.

Still carrying his rifle, his face changed from an immediate show of confusion to one of blatant fury, before he checked himself and instead focused on his task of directing the fallen Reinhead Heydrich into a nearby car. 

Breathing in, Obergruppenführer John Smith took in the deadly silence around them, the stench of death and spilled blood, and tried to find balance -- control. The forest around them was usually lovely this time of year, his chosen staking period, but the overall effect was ruined by the taste of treachery and the buzz of adrenaline.

"Did the BDM teach you how to shoot or did you just flunk out of any sort of weapon handling altogether?" Hauge asked, loudly, as he sprang about the pathway around the Obergruppenführer, toward the car, and his chosen target. To punctuate the end of his point, he grabbed his crotch with a bloodied hand, and John just about managed to hide his distaste by looking away and sighing under his breath. 

Major Klemm had no such restraint. The man looked pointedly at the Obergruppenführer, but Smith deliberately did not say or do anything that might suggest how to respond. This was Klemm's issue, one he had to deal with himself. 

There was a reason for all of this, of course, aside from apprehending Heydrich. Smith took great time and effort into building up those he deemed worthy enough for his tutelage, and both of the boys -- men, really, but forever likened his charges to something requiring his attention, where in a requirement of a good lesson or two.

Today, it would be Klemm.

He had done well so far; he'd followed his orders, taken up position and carried out the shot. All things Smith expected. He'd managed to deal with the Lieutenant, but the Major had also slipped up in one crucial area.

John wanted to see if he'd realise it. Maybe he would. Maybe not.

"Adam," John called, gently, deliberately unaffectedly. "Don't be indecent."

"But you have to admit it yourself, Obergruppenführer." The Lieutenant shot back easily. "A spotty little Rottenführer could do better blindfolded."

John did not say anything to that, instead, he calmly regarded Lawrence, who was now directly looking at Adam, and looking an inch short of incensed. He tried not to show it on his face, of course, but the Obergruppenführer knew better.

Lawrence Klemm was one of the younger ones, considering. He was older, granted, but he had not been in John's service for as long, and unlike Erich, who had passed all expectations and was a shining example of what a good protege could amount to, Lawrence was autocratic -- domineering, to a point of fault. He'd been getting better, admittedly, but this was a test of his patience. 

The fact that it involved Klemm's shooting ability only added insult to injury.

"At least I actually hit what I was aiming for," Klemm snapped back, control lost, and the Obergruppenführer smiled grimly. 

He decided to end it there. More out of a lack of time than any meaningful outcome. Having sent Hauge off to check the road ahead, he checked to ensure that Heydrich was cuffed and silent in the back of the car, and then regarded Klemm with raised eyebrows.

"That shot was uncalled for, Major."

"I apologize, Obergruppenführer. I'll be more polite in the future."

John sighed. "No, Major; the shot itself. You caused an unnecessary scene."

Klemm actually looked confused. "Sir? You asked for a distraction."

"I asked that you be rid of the guard, Lawrence. You chose to interpret it as a distraction." He glanced into the car, locked eyes with the Oberst-Gruppenführer. "Pride can kill, Lawrence. By all means, show off when your life is at stake, but please refrain from doing so when mine is on the line. A proud look, doth the Lord hate."

The major managed some form of discomfort, but he did not allow himself to become too wounded that his self-pity might cause destruction, and for that, John was proud. He slapped the man on the shoulder.

"By all means, the shot was adequate, but you know well enough to not pay mind to a man who deliberately plays with his food."

He allowed Lawrence to think it over. It would be a long drive back. 

 

 


	2. A Lying Tongue

 

"You did not tell me that your wife was pregnant, John." 

Untersturmführer John Smith rarely dined with the Oberst-Gruppenführer, but whenever he did, he always lost the taste for wine and fine dining afterward. Never for long. Just enough to leave an impression.

John looked up from his carrots with heavy reluctance. The question was phrased so that it would come across as bemused, maybe even kind, but he knew better -- knew that the man would never have brought it up unless it was not of any interest to himself. The fact that it was exactly the question he did not, under any circumstances, want to even answer only made it worse.

Taking a swig of his wine, John pulled his lips to the side and shrugged. "I did not know she was pregnant until very recently myself, Oberst-Gruppenführer."

A heavy pause and Heydrich looked at him a little more closely. It wasn't an outright lie. 

"Oh I think we both know better than that," Heydrich smiles.

 

 

"Oh I think we both know better than that," John smiles. 

Juliana Crane gives him a puzzled look, but it's fake; underneath, there is surprise and shock, yes, but she knows why, and she knows what. 

"The human tongue is like a lit match that many times is carelessly thrown into the wrong bushel or place. It is always leaving a devastating mess that brings destruction." Obergruppenführer Smith casts one look at the driver, along the curb, before fixing his gaze straight back onto her face. "You did not tell me that you went to see Joe, Julia."

John Smith was not a man who encouraged secrets. He encouraged confidentiality, the silence of information that was of no interest to the situation; things that did not cause problems, issues, details of which were personal and therefore not important -- unless they came to be. 

Smith did not expect Juliana Crane to come out with information on the Man In the High Castle straight away, no; he expected her to become comfortable here, to grow fond and safe, and then to spill the proverbial beans once she knew she had a footing, some false sense of security, but alas. People looking for safety do not idly throw it aside to chase demons. Joe Blake was a dangerous element. If she was sincere, she would have nothing to do with him, wandering heart or otherwise.

John steps closer, let's his natural size become an element of their conversation. 

"Joe is on important business in Berlin, as I have told you."

"I..." Juliana sets her jaw and curses her lack of subtly while Julia does her best to look cowed and embarrassed. "I must not have recalled. I owe him much."

"You owe the Reich, Miss Mills." John reminds her, smile intact. 

He wonders if she stays for long, how she might come to learn. The other ladies whom he presides over are aware of this fact. Anita more than all of them. To lie was to dismiss of such a fact and such, he did not appreciate.

"Of course," she lets out a gasp and he waves to the car. In time. She'll learn in time.

After all, if John knows she's lying, then she's only really lying to herself. 

And that will sort itself out, in time.

It always does.

Once Miss Mills has climbed into the car, he makes his way up the pathway to his home, his waiting wife, his children.

John frowns despite himself, feels the creeping cold of unease make it's way up his back. Wasn't there a time like this, long ago, but in reverse?

He doesn't dwell on it. 

 

 

"Such sorts itself out in time, John. It always does." The man smiles over his wine. "You know better than to lie to yourself, and me, by extension."

"Of course, Oberst-Gruppenführer."

 


	3. Hands That Shed Innocent Blood

 

"But, why?"

Oberst-Gruppenführer Heydrich twirls around from where he was stood to raise both eyebrows at John, but he's amused. John has to wonder what is amusing about...  _this_.

"My my, two of the forbidden words in one sentence?"

They are stood in a sea of blood, and it is only half-way metaphorical; John is responsible for one part of it, but Heydrich's men have been doing some heavy work between yesterday and now. The room is stifling, a gross combination of sweat and blood.

John's skin itches. Like most in his profession, he got a rush when he saw blood; thrived on combat, on stress and pain and aggression, but this is more than that. He brings his hands up, his knuckles rising up over the horizon of prisoners, fingers blackened with the murk of dried, rusty blood, flaking and peeling off like rotting beams. His forearms are covered, too. His shirt will need burning. 

Their victim is a man in their late thirties. Robert Price. John came into his session understanding that if the man spoke, that they'd let him go afterward. 

The man did not get the chance to say anything. John had been instructed to beat this man, torture him, with the understanding that this... criminal, this semite, would not speak. In reality, he had nothing to say.

Nothing they didn't already know.

"And now I want you to end it, John." Heydrich offers the handgun backside first, fingers clasped around the barrel, light, loose. 

And this is where John asks. When he takes the handgun, and Heydrich walks away, he pauses for a moment, confused.

"But, why?"

The Butcher of Prague hates both of those words. They are the words of a man not committed to the Reich, and John agreed, on the standard principle that orders must be obeyed. But John, while he would gladly shoot this man dead, wants to know. Why bother killing this one. He would be better off alive, more useful. 

Heydrich, for all his faults, knows that John is not being purposefully disobedient. He legitimately does not understand. A good mentor would explain without compromise or delay, and Heydrich needs the American Reich to succeed. Needs John to succeed. He is not a good mentor, per say; he's often too brash, too demanding, and his lessons are made for instruction more than teaching, but sometimes -- depending on the situation, the man relents.

And here, bloody and rushed, Heydrich is in the right kind of mood. 

"It is a common understanding within our unit that the Semites check their dead," he steps over, looks at the kneeling man. He's in a bad way. Like a cat proudly presenting its first mangled bird-cadaver to its adoring master, Heydrich drags the wrung-out neck and terrified eyes of the Semite sniper up. He brandishes it before John like an offering. A sacrifice.

Sometimes, just sometimes, John wonders, between them, who is the God and who is the mortal. 

"This man, we know what he has to say, we already knew." A boot comes down on the man's leg and he makes a gasping, choked off noise. He couldn't scream even if he tried. "But the rest of the infestation does not. And when this man's corpse turns up tomorrow morning, they will assume that we still do not yet know."

It makes sense, and John Smith nods, pulls back the slide of his handgun. The hiss of metal against metal, the clank of a pin set, and he raises it level, between the man's eyes. 

Heydrich turns on his heels.

"Make sure to clean yourself up properly, John." He says as he makes his departure. "Don't get blood on the carpets."

John doesn't reply, he doesn't need to; the thunderous bark of his handgun and the heavy drop of a corpse does so on his behalf. 

 

 

Obergruppenführer Smith has children, of course. He has two wonderful daughters and a proud, brilliant son -- they adjourn his desk in shining, perfect photographs and serve as a reminder as the perfect examples of Aryan youth. None of them are Nordic, that is true, but they are healthy and smart and proud. And they will be. Thomas will survive, in the end, he is sure. They'll find something for him. He's too much of his father's son to go without, to give up.

But Thomas, while he is smart and brave and everything he'd want in a son, is not quite what John  _needs_. 

Thomas is like Helen in such a way, he has her gentle nature, her smile, her soft, kind behaviors -- John has a much darker side, a much more carnal, beast-like quality that manifested in sharp military flair and a quality of work that was at times brutal but always, always required. And while he loves his son, would die for him, he can't help but look for similar beings, like-minded souls. 

Adam Hauger is exactly this.

But while he enjoyed Hauge's bloodthirsty nature, there was a requirement of management. And so, when he came across the scene stretched out before him, instead of dealing with it straight away, he stood quietly, and waited. 

The human is built, designed, molded by evolution to hunt in an optimal manner; the 90 mph throwing speed found in some athletes exceeds many other creatures of the hunt, and the bottle of white liquor Lieutenant Hauge lunges at the stunned looking captain is only mere evidence. The projectile finds a solid impact against the wall behind them, shattering into dozens upon dozens of shards with such force that one man ends up getting caught in the crossfire.

"What the FUCK was that about?!" Hauge demands of the singled out captain, and the room is stuck into a deadly silence.

This is not a regular temper tantrum, that much John knows after a single moment of observation. He had become familiar enough with the twenty-six-year-old's moods over the course of ten years to know that such were common and nothing more than shows of dominance; aggressive little acts that were designed to put him on top without having to go all out on the effort. Easy, casual displays. 

But this, no,  _this_  was something else. 

The stream of angry, helpless rage that comes out of Hauge's mouth only confirms it.

"You fucking choked out there!" The Lieutenant screams. "What the fuck is going on!?"

A pause, and Hauge directs one arm out behind him towards the door, but he does not look back to actually notice John's presence.

"We had ALL the advantage we needed to combat that situation and that mother-FUCKER just takes out sixteen of our troop?! What- what HAPPENED to you?!"

He would intervene when the time was right. The Obergruppenführer sighed, adjusted his posture, laced his hands behind his back. In a moment.

The captain himself knows that he's thoroughly messed up. As Hauge screams and spits, the other officer just gives the boy a thousand yard stare. He knows.

"We need to make a plan, sir," he says, eventually. 

John cannot see the boy's expression, but regardless, he saw the immediate, furious response in the shift of Hauge's shoulders alone. 

"What the fuck is this 'we' shit?!"

A hand comes out and strikes the Captain over the side of the face. Hard. The Obergruppenführer knows. Adam Hauge has been taught to smack civilians and soldiers alike -- his punches break bones.

"We?! You're the one who fucked up here, Hoss! You! The fucking brownshirt-mother-fuckin-children in the H-fucking-J showed up harder than you! And I don't gotta tell you that those motherfuckers ain't worth shit!"

The violence that follows is almost automatic; a punch immediately turns into a grapple, and soon Hauger is slamming the captain around in his distracted rage. The stomach goes first, then the man keeled over, arms wrapped around his stomach, and a boot to the face knocks him to the floor in a spray of wet blood. Ribs. Back. John heard the crunch of bone, the snap of cartilage. 

The Lieutenant has just taken a step back to circle his victim when Smith speaks up.

"That's enough, Adam." 

Without missing a beat, Hauge rises up like a leviathan from where he was leaning over the Captain and spins around to face the Obergruppenführer. 

"And where the FUCK where YOU?!"

Smith raised a questioning eyebrow but kept his voice level. It was not wise to risk an argument. They'd get nothing productive achieved. 

"This is getting to be a bit of a problem." He sighed instead, and as Hauge came barreling over with wide set steps and clenched fists, he readied himself -- not to end it, not yet. He needed to know of the exact issue at hand and if he just waited...

And, of course.

"A problem?! I've lost fucking sixteen soldiers to those bastards and it's a fucking  _problem_?!"

As soon as he gets within range, Smith hits the boy with enough force across the side of his face that the bones in his fingers vibrate with the force. Hauge is not stupid, he moves his face with the assault so that it's less of an impact to take, but it's an interlude -- nothing is fixed, or better, but the second the Obergruppenführer can get hold of the boy's collar and drag him down to his level, breaking the stream of violence and getting him up and close, they're redirected into a direction that they are familiar with.

John kept him there for a minute, balancing the boy's weight so that being stuck in a half crouch is not as uncomfortable on the knees, and very, very slowly, counted the number of breaths that the boy takes, the number of surges his chest takes until they level out and become thin, calm.

"You've spent more than enough time in the field to know that a battle is not a war, Adam." John released him when the boy calmed down enough to reach a resting heart-rate, only half-certain that a knife, or a fist won't come flying up to smack him down. Neither of them do, thank God, and Hauge just stared down at the Obergruppenführer with that same, scrunched up peculiar expression he gets, whenever he couldn't quite figure out what it is he is looking at.

He's waiting. Before, John would have hit him harder, more often, but he knows that Hauger is also getting older -- that he's starting to understand that doesn't  _need_  to start a fight with John to get his attention, and he's not now, because he knows it, but that part of his brain that is hardwired to expect it does not let up. He's expecting a fight. If John was being merciful, he'd give him one.

But Hauge is not a child anymore. If he's going to be of continued use to John, then he needs to learn to curb it. The Obergruppenführer himself doesn't care; he's fought with Adam Hauger many a time before -- has even enjoyed it, but if he is to use the boy in the future, outside the confined isolation of the Canadian wilderness, then he needs the Lieutenant at least half-way tamed. 

They're getting there. Slowly.

One second, two seconds, three. Hauge breathed in, then he breathed out, and finally, he narrowed his eyes.

"You're no fun anymore, old man." He said, snidely, the bitter immaturity of a boy rumbling in the broad chest of a full-grown man.   
  
John did his best not to roll his eyes. "Oh, well I guess that's a shame, isn't it?" He waved a hand at the fallen Captain. "Don't be careless. Finish what you started."

(it's a change, from years ago, when the then-Untersturmführer Smith stood with a much younger, much smaller Hauge and held his own hand on top of the boy's, as he slowly directed the muzzle of that exact handgun to the back of a semtite's neck, where the kill would be instant.

The fact that it directly conflicts with the memory of teaching Thomas how to bootlaces is not lost on John.)

 

 

 


	4. A Heart That Deviseth Wicked Acts.

 

Here, a memory:

Berlin in 1958. The Führer's birthday celebration -- the actual one, not the roving masses of Hitlerjugend, red and white and columns of black and brown. It's a time of business, is nothing else, celebrations such as these. John Smith, SS-Obergruppenführer and Chief of Police, Chief of the American Main Security Office, Acting Reich-Protector of The Reichskommissariat of America, is the forefront of a lot of attention.

He often always is. Not any more than the Führer himself, perhaps, but like a king from a faraway land, John Smith is a tempting recipient of many a character's interests. 

And hers, he notices, perhaps twenty seconds into a conversation with Reichsminister Heusmann over the state of exports, which inevitably drags in thoroughly displeased Generaladmiral Raeder of the American War Navy. The man keeps his arms close to his sides and barely says anything other than to disparagingly make the observation that, if the Reich wanted seamless logistics, it should divert its attentions away from firing rockets into space and, perhaps, more on firing them at the pirates plaguing their seas.   

The man gives John a blasé, flat look. "Of course, that would be subject to negotiation, what with the ever increasing number of SS on my ships."

"I wasn't aware of it being an issue," John flipped back just as casually, after which he saw her; young, very young, dark haired and pale, wearing a dress that was undoubtedly well made and fit her well, but was cut in a modest shape. It made her unassuming. Hidden, almost.

Which was why John noticed her, gliding through the crowd toward them. Helen, who was looking up at John's face, saw him notice too.

"Spare me," The Generaladmiral exhaled under his breath. He noticed the woman as well -- she came between him and the Reichsminister, coming close enough to brush the sword he carried, then, to press against his forearm when he reached down automatically to rearrange it. 

The change in attitude was quick, and John bemusedly noticed several little ticks in the man's face, carbon copy of the grievances in which could be observed on his son's own expression when displeased, annoyed or otherwise. Posture adjusting so he might be as closed off as possible while still adhering to the polite company, the Generaladmiral smiled thinly and raised a hand slightly in greeting.

"Guten Abend, Fräulein Brasche. Es ist ein vergnügen sie wieder zu sehen." He gave her a very short, direct look up and down, as if confirming something than actually taking in her appearance. "Mein liebes, Sie werden sehr hübsch heute abend als immer angekleidet."

The woman let out a short, quiet laugh and rested her perfectly manicured hand on the man's arm. Raeder himself only barely covered up the automatic twitch of his cheek at the contact.

"Ich sollte denselben Ihnen sagen, Generaladmiral Raeder. Solch ein Verführer, dieser Mann," she indciated to Raeder, her smile twisting into something more amused. "mit solchen manieren."

John's own German was decent, attuned to basic commands and conversations, military talk, but he didn't need to know the language fluently to all but see the blatant flirting going on. It was shocking, alarming -- the Generaladmiral was not the kind of man who attracted such attention; he was staunchly apolitical, possessed marked authoritarian views, and who impressed upon values of hard work, thrift, religion, and obedience. A lot of the family was like that; Erich was only one mere example.

Raeder was a man who was difficult to approach from a military perceptive -- impossible, from the whims of a lovely young female.

And if this interaction was any indication, this had indeed happened before. Raeder politely answered her questions but remained indifferent, closed off. Not that the young woman wasn't trying; she'd certainly managed to catch Heusmann's attention, who glanced once at Raeder as if to demand why he wasn't taking up the very obvious offer of attention. Beside him, Helen shifted, affronted that her husband's attention was directed toward this woman and not her.

But she was mistaken; John was not interested in this woman's blatant -- and farily effective -- attempts at seduction for his own interest, or, well he was, but not for _him_. 

He could do a lot with a woman like that.

Some part of him wishes, inwardly, that the Generaladmiral was the kind of man who would fall for it, if just to see how effective this woman truly was. 

Sadly, however, the Generaladmiral did not have much in the way of patience for what he saw as disrespect, and John all but exhausted it when he leaned back on the heels of his boots and sighed, " _Solch ein Verführer_ " in a quiet, wistful tone. A mistake, one he realized was paramount, of which had disastrous results.

The Generaladmiral stiffened, and he titled his head slightly to look at John from the corner of his eye. 

Raeder's mouth pulled in a way that might suggest a smile, but his teeth ground together in a show of immense displeasure. Glancing at the woman stood beside him, the Generaladmiral tipped his head up and downed the remainder of his schnapps before raising the empty glass.

"Bitte müssen sie mich entschuldigen." He declared, at Heusmann and turned slightly to regard a sullen looking young man dressed in the service dress uniform of the Kriegsmarine, who John hadn't realized was actually there, as quiet and still as the boy was. As he moved off to some other part of the party, he brushed John's back, head tilted at such an angle that suggested a wordless challenge. "Mitgekommen, Oberstabsgefreiter."

The boy stood behind him brightened considerably at the verbal command and followed, leaving the remaining four of them to look at the Generaladmiral's turned back.

Fräulein Brasche looked disappointed. Disappointed and, John realized, feared. As he made polite talk with Heusmann, he caught the way she glanced back over the crowd, to where the Führer and his regular crowd were stood. There, Oberst-Gruppenführer Heydrich narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass. John leaned over.

"If the Oberst-Gruppenführer wished for any input on the Generaladmiral's intentions, he better try elsewhere. Believe you me, the whims of an attractive woman may be tempting, but he would do best to remind himself of the dangers of infidelity."

It was dangerous, yes, to hint of the young Reinhard Heydrich's failed Kreigsmarine career, but he hoped that it got the point across.

 

 

He finds her, later on in the year, when the air turns cold and New York freezes over; it's a bad year, this year, or maybe John just assumes as such because of the shortages. Sixteen frigates out in the Atlantic and none of them have come back. There isn't much they can't access from the homeland, but what they do import is struggling to get in, and it's noticeable. The officials have been terming it the Maritime Crisis. For the first time in years, he's close to pleading.

Generaladmiral Raeder does not answer to the Obergruppenführer, that is true, but after sixteen letters of correspondence and no less than three dozen phone calls, he is starting to lose his patience.

Then he finds her, and he knows. 

Antia Volker, daughter of two German expats tried for treason after the war, was found racially superior and kept in an SS Home School until she was adopted, later on, by a couple from Germany who came to settle the Reichskommissariat. Like most children born of the Lebensborn or taken in by it, the Reich has her on file, and so when she came to the office early last year she was given a small, easy profession working in hospitality with little hang up. 

But it wasn't just her background that John found invaluable. She was also smart, discrete, and when he told her to sleep with a rival SD officer from Berlin and poison his tea with cyanide, she did so without blinking, without any hesitation. 

John Smith likes to think that there is little he won't do for the Reich -- but there are some things he cannot do by virtue of rank, of his gender, of his size and his physique, his reputation, his mere existence. Most of those things, however, Antia Volker can, and will, do.

And she does so because there is a twisted little girl inside there, with a twisted heart and a bleeding, hot desire to serve the Reich -- by any means necessary, and what's all the better, she'll do it while having her own dark fun in the interim. Much like the more devious men under his command, it's what she lives for. 

He sits her down in his office one morning in early December.

"Do you know the name Dietrich Raeder?" He asks, and she frowns ever so slightly, rusty-blonde braid falling over one shoulder.

"You have an aide with the name," she observes through pursed lips and Smith sighs, slides over a file.

"They're related," he affirms, and merely watches as she reads over the file, the way her eyes rush to take in as much information as possible, the way her mouth forms the words, the vowels. "But I must insist that you do not mention the Generaladmiral outside these doors, especially around the Sturmbannführer. He is a loyal soldier and a loyal friend, but family is always paramount to our each individual interests, and we must not make this anymore... inconvenient that it already is."

The file is not a complete record of the man; it is mostly observations and analysis of his personality than anything else -- anything John can get his hands on without stepping on two many toes, which is... rather concerningly not a whole lot. He blames the men in Berlin for that; the Kriegsmarine elders, who seize up at the sight of an SS Hound sniffing around their business. He's not entirely sure if Raeder himself would even  _care_ if he did, but for some reason, the men across the pond hate the idea of it.

She purses her lips again, looks over the edge of the paper at him. "You think this one is committing treason?" She asks, and her eyes have gone dark, predatory.

John shakes his head, reaches over for a cigarette. "No," is the short answer. "Like many within the Reich, the Generaladmiral is a devout protector of his country," a pause. "But I fear that his operations are being held deliberately from my knowledge. He's proven difficult to reach over the past few months."

Lighting up with a flash of orange and a cloud of smoke, he inhales, lets his hand fall to the top of his desk. 

"I want you to take up a position as one of his assistances - one of the less important members of his staff. The Generaladmiral prefers personnel at his side; and he will, have men at his side most of the time," a warning. "But there are matters that a soldier cannot properly handle, politically sensitive personal matters that require a woman's touch."

She looks up at him with that funny little smirk, and he raises a hand.

"Do not try to seduce the Generaladmiral," he warns. "You'll blow your cover immediately. That family is notoriously ultra-conservative, model Christian gentlemen - and before you concern yourself over their religious conduct, it's irrelevant, he serves the Reich just as effectively as one who prays to the Führer. No - you," he points to her with the end of his cigarette. "You are going to become daughter material."

He's not entirely sure if the Raeder's particularly wanted another child aside from Erich -- the Sturmbannführer mentioned having wanted siblings growing up, but from what he could tell, aside from a nasty shrapnel injury that left the Generaladmiral with a subtle limp, there was no physical reason for the lack of children other than sheer absence. What he knew of the man suggested that he was open to acting like a father, however; he referred to his fleet as his family, his sailors, his kin.

He knows that Antia will figure out her angle on her own. It's how she operates.

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Whatever you do, do not mention the War."

And that is where they leave it. She's on a plane to Virginia as soon as she gets the job, a mere month on, in early November. From there it's mostly silent. Notes on habits and maneuvers; a trip to Berlin just before Thanksgiving. Talks with the Reichminister, with the Großadmiral, a few trips out into various lakes and seas during downtime -- parades, the usual fare. Nothing too surprising. Then she reports that the Generaladmiral is spending too much time touring incomplete battlecruisers being built or renovated in dry dock and he wonders if it's something else, something more.

He doesn't have enough time to delve into it, however. 

Two weeks before Christmas, the Smiths are invited over for dinner.

It's not rare; the Smiths' did not own a large table for formal dining -- they preferred intimate family dinners where eye contact is a mere look away, not the structured seating arrangements in which the Raeder's utilized; Erich, in particular, found himself increasingly uncomfortable when having to sit somewhere without designated seating, so when it came to large formal gatherings, the Raeders invited the Smiths. Erich and his parents lived only a block away, and if nothing else it was a good example to set; spoke of the close family bonds between the Sippengemeinschaft. Such ties were important in the Reich. Good bonding between fellow soldiers, future connections for the children, pleasure for the ladies in having close friendships.

"Father invites you and your family over for dinner," this time Erich is the one to drop the bomb. He usually is, unless Mrs. Raeder is in contact with Helen. The Sturmbannführer looks profoundly uncomfortable in having been made messenger this time, however. He doesn't look up from the floor, and it took him at least half an hour of sullen silence before he managed to bring the matter up.

In fact, as John thinks back, for the past few days Erich has been uncharacteristically disturbed. He would ask, but it hasn't affected his work and it's not as rare as it seems; this bizarre shift in mood happens at certain points of the year, and most of them coincide with family holidays. Christmas is the worst. 

And some things are better left untouched. Family matters are just one of those things that John cannot intrude upon. 

John knows what this is, though. The Generaladmiral liked to test his mettle against the Obergruppenführer, and vice versa. This was just another competition in the making.

So John accepts, and wonders for a moment just how bad it's going to be this time, when it looks like Erich is about to vomit at his confirmation. 

He finds out why at the end of the week, when he herds his trio of well-dressed children into the Raeder's home to find Antia sat at the family dining table.

She's sat next to Erich, who looks suitably mortified. And he's not wearing a uniform, either -- he's wearing that navy blue number, the one that aggravated the size of his torso and stretched the fabric at the base of his shoulders. The one he wore for VA day. Or maybe Erich just wore similar shaded suits. John couldn't tell from where he was standing.

"You must excuse my lateness," the Generaladmiral says, in English, as he enters the room no more than five minutes of awkward small-talk later, dressed formally but not in his own uniform, suit and tie -- glances once at his son, a habit, before regarding Smith with a customary salute. "Hail Hitler, Obergruppenführer, Mrs. Smith, children." Then, to his wife, with a more apologetic tone. "Phonecall from Berlin, I apologize."

Mrs. Raeder tuts under her breath as she finishes setting out the table. "They are most rude, calling at this hour."

"Mhn," he brushes his fingers against her arm and smiles. "Cannot be helped, dear."

Helen makes a noise at the back of her throat and gives John a look. He smiles back at her, feigning obliviousness, before he asks. "And who is this lovely lady here?"

Raeder rasies his eyebrows. "Oh, you haven't introduced yourselves?" He gives Erich a long look. "Mein Junge weiß gewöhnlich besser." Reaching from seemingly nowhere, he produces a bottle, fills up his glass of wine, his wife's, and moves over to where his son and Miss Volker are sitting. "Erich, sie handeln respektlos. Modifizieren sie Ihr benehmen wenn ich bitten darf."

Watching as his wine glass is filled, Erich runs through about a dozen facial expressions before he snaps out of his funk and apologizes. 

"Miss Volker," he extends a hand to John. "My superior Obergruppenführer Smith, his wife Helen, and his children. Thomas, Jennifer, Amy."

Antia looks unsure, and more than just a little alarmed. She manages to cover most of it up, but judging by the awkward interaction between herself and Erich, this was the arrangement that had put the Sturmbannführer into his recent mood swing. John is sure that Erich does not know who Antia truly is.

He looks from Antia to Derek, and the man smiles. 

He waits until after dinner to actually ask. Erich goes to drop of Miss Volker at her own home, Helen and Mrs. Raeder are conversing... somewhere, and the children, he assumes, are likely taking in Erich's little collection of service memorabilia. It leaves the two officers alone on the porch, out in the cold, where it's quiet.

"I will admit," the Generaladmiral offers John a cigar. "She had me fooled for a number of weeks. I eventually found out that she was a plant, but I didn't know she was yours until recently."

John pauses just as he is about to bring his scotch to his mouth, and Derek Raeder sighs. 

"Unfortunately for your little, ah, spy," he licks his bottom lip as he looks over the back garden. Erich pays for Thomas to come by every weekend to cut the grass. Good character building is his excuse. "Heydrich applied similar methods before. I guess that is where you learned that particular tactic from, although I must say you've done far better than his previous... attempts."

The Obergruppenführer takes a drink, sighs. "She worked as intended, for the most part."

"Unfortunate that she had nothing of worth to learn," Derek shrugged. "I'm no traitor, Smith. But... put that girl somewhere else, and I can guarantee she'll bring you something worthwhile," he hisses through his teeth. "She was right on my hip for most of it. It pains me to wonder what she'd pick up if I was planning anything." A wince. "She tried to kill me, you know?"

"Oh?"

"Fingernails. I've got the scratches on my neck to prove it. Almost succeeded, that infernal little monster. Good thing she's a looker."

John looked across the garden, tracked the white light in the distance, a plane making it's way across the skyline. "I'm thinking of having her as a permanent member of staff at the headquarters."

Derek grunted. "Smart move."

John nodded in agreement. Why the Generaladmiral was acting the way he was... It was not a conversation for now. Erich had told him in the past -- they did not speak of business within the house, and he wasn't stupid enough to imagine that Derek would change his set behavior for a guest, least of all John.

Instead, he has to ask. "You learned it from Heydrich?"

"Of course," he glanced at John, pulled at his cigar. "Why else would I allow my son to fall under your command?" 

Silence.

John glared at Derek through narrowed eyes, and the man lasted, perhaps, five seconds before bursting into laughter.

He ran a hand over his mouth, snorted under his breath. Then he looked at John straight in the eye, shaking his head. "I do, honestly wish it was the case - but for now, keep your people in your own front yard and out of mine. I do love a game, now and again, but-" he hisses through his teeth. "Don't involve family. Never involve family. Especially not that little-..."

He sighs.

"I dread to think what she's going to do to that boy."

Well, she must have done something. The next morning, Lawrence loudly demands to know why Erich has a bite mark on his neck -- the other man swears under his breath, flicks his collar up around his throat and, just as loudly, declares that he's never going to marry anyone from the workplace for his own safety, parents' expectations be damned.

 

 


End file.
